


Postsecret

by whichclothes



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-23
Updated: 2010-04-23
Packaged: 2017-10-09 02:56:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/82285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichclothes/pseuds/whichclothes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Begins during BtVS S6, shortly before <em>Once More with Feeling</em>. A visiting demon causes secrets to be spilled, and those secrets change our boys' lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/) 's lovely art, which she's allowed me to include. It's complete and I'll post a chapter a day. As far as I know, the real person behind the [Postsecret](http://www.postsecret.com) project is neither demonic nor evil. My muse lives for feedback!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[postsecret](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/postsecret), [spike/xander](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Postsecret, Chapter 1 of 5**_  
**Title: **Postsecret   
**Chapter:** 1 of 5   
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:** slash and schmoop   
**Summary:** Begins during BtVS S6, shortly before _Once More with Feeling_. A visiting demon causes secrets to be spilled, and those secrets change our boys' lives.   
**Author's Note:** This fic was inspired by [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/) 's lovely art, which she's allowed me to include. It's complete and I'll post a chapter a day. As far as I know, the real person behind the [Postsecret](http://www.postsecret.com) project is neither demonic nor evil. My muse lives for feedback!

 

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/0007y3ee/)  
---  
  
**Postsecret**

**Chapter One**

It was a ridiculous, poncy way to be spending an evening. William bloody Pratt likely would have loved it, would have got his knickers all damp over it. The several hundred Happy Meals there tonight were certainly all having a lovely time, laughing and crying as if anyone bloody cared what they fantasized about when they wanked or what their daddies did to them or what chemicals they were polluting their bloodstreams with. They thought everything was so momentous when they’d all be dead anyway within a few decades, give or take. Maybe less, considering this was Sunnydale.

He couldn’t even eat the berks.

Spike crossed his arms over his chest and kicked at the purse of the cow sitting in front of him and scowled.

He’d been hanging about at the Magic Box, hoping to perhaps start a row among the Scoobies for his own entertainment, when the Watcher said he suspected there was something wrong with the bloke running this event. He’d heard rumors of strange happenings during engagements in other towns. So of course Buffy went, and the witch and her girl and Harris went along with. Spike didn’t, not at first. But there was nothing in town worth killing at the moment, and he couldn’t be arsed to find the dosh—or the kittens—for poker. Besides, although he definitely was not stalking the Slayer, because that was far beneath his dignity as a demon with 120 years of reputation behind him, he had been keeping a bit of an eye on her lately. Her little holiday in the afterlife had taken a lot out of her, and her friends were being less than helpful lately, preoccupied as they were with their own dramas.

So he’d come into the lecture hall and sat near the back. There was a bloke on stage, behind a podium with the UC Sunnydale logo, nattering on about the power of secrets and talking up the books he sold that were full of other peoples’ confidences. The Slayer and her lot were close to the front. The witches were listening closely, but Buffy looked as sullen as Spike felt, and Harris’s head was lolling as if he were having trouble staying awake.

Then the bloke asked for help and two birds volunteered. He handed them stacks of cards and tiny pencils and asked them to hand them out to the audience. As each person in the uncomfortable chairs got one of the cards, he or she would immediately start writing. Even Buffy, Spike saw. Harris perked up to scribble something as well.

When the cards got to him, Spike intended to simply ball his up and throw it away, or else perhaps make something up. Perhaps he’d pretend to be the pouf: _I hate that I can’t see my reflection when I’m rubbing in my poncy hair gel. _Or perhaps he’d give them a secret that truly wasn’t one at all, at least to some of those in the room: _I’ve murdered thousands of innocent people, and enjoyed every one_. He wondered what the skinny bloke at the lectern would make of that one.

But as soon as he had the stiff little piece of paper in his right hand and the stubby pencil in his left, a strange compulsion came over him and he wrote down something else altogether. A true secret, something he hadn’t really admitted even to himself but he knew was genuine as soon as he saw it. “Bloody _hell_,” he muttered to himself, and he tried to cross it out, but he couldn’t force the pencil to make the obliterating marks.

A few moments later the girls came by again, smiling widely, and they collected the cards. He handed his over without a struggle, even though he’d rather have showered in holy water. They brought the cards up to the stage, the man shuffled them a bit, and then he began to read them.

Most of them were so horribly personal it made him wince to hear them. These people—college students most of them—had written their deepest fears and most hidden desires. They’d confessed to terrible crimes and a few acts of immorality that gave even him pause. They’d revealed the monsters inside of themselves, monsters usually much more veiled than the demon in him.

As the man read the cards, members of the audience cried out or moaned or sobbed. A few appeared to be on the edge of violence against others. Two of them fainted. But nobody left. Like Spike, each of them appeared transfixed, unable to leave his or her seat as the man kept reading, his smile never dimming one notch.

_I think I was in heaven_. As soon as the man read that one, the witches and Harris turned in their seats to gape at the Slayer, each of their faces masks of horror. Huh, Spike thought. Cat’s out of the bag on that one now. Buffy’s face went stony and she refused to meet their eyes.

_I’ve been using magic to change my girlfriend’s memories_. Oops. Glinda’s face went white as paper and Red began to cry. Then Red clutched at Glinda’s arm and Glinda turned her back to her.

_I’m afraid of what my girlfriend’s magic is doing to her and I’m going to leave if she doesn’t stop_. Now Red’s shoulders began to shake even harder while Glinda tried to curl herself into a miserable little ball.

_I’m having second thoughts about getting married_. Harris slumped so far down in his seat it was a miracle his arse didn’t slide right off.

_What I need more than anything else in the world is to be told (just once) that someone doesn’t know what they would do without me. _Spike was very relieved that vampires couldn’t blush. In any case, nobody looked at him as the man read that one. Who would, really? Nobody here really cared what his secrets were.

By the time the man finished reading the cards, there wasn’t a person in the room who wasn’t nearly overcome with emotional turmoil. Nobody but the man, of course, who was still grinning widely, putting in one last plug for his books. Except, Spike was fairly certain, that bloke wasn’t a man at all.

Outside the building, Spike tried to catch up with the group. But they weren’t really a group at all. They stalked off in four different directions, actually, and Spike was forced to choose which to follow. Of course he chose the Slayer, and he followed her as she made her way back across town. He finally confronted her very close to her house.

“It was mojo,” he announced, putting a hand on her shoulder.

She shook him off and kept walking. “No kidding, Spike. Go haunt someone else.”

He danced around until he was in front of her, blocking her way. “He enchanted those cards, I expect, and—“

“Whatever.”

She tried to walk around him and he hopped to block her again. “He’s a demon, love, a Hrhtugr demon. Heard of them but never saw one before. They’re sort of emotional vampires, you see, feeding off humans’ feelings. Not quite as deadly as my lot, but still unpleasant.”

She stopped and glared at him. “Yeah, so?”

“So…you need to stop him.”

“Why? Everybody already knows everything.”

“Because you’re the Slayer! That’s what you do, innit? Step in, save the day, send the nasties packing, yeah?”

“Not this time. I’m going home to sleep.”

“But—“

Without warning, she hauled her fist back and smacked it into his face. He felt his nose snap and he jumped back and held his hands to the bloody mess, swearing. “Oi! I’m only trying to be helpful, like. You’ve no reason to get violent, Sugar Ray.”

She pulled a stake from her pocket and brandished it at him. “I’m in no mood for your crap, Spike. Go away or it’s gonna be a lot more than your nose that suffers.”

He shook his head and clenched his jaw, but let her march by him. “No reason to get angry with me, you know. I’m not the one who brought you back.” She didn’t respond at all, just kept walking. “Should’ve bloody left you there,” he muttered to her back and stomped back to his crypt and the bottle of Jack Daniels he was fairly certain he had stashed somewhere.

When Spike arrived at the Magic Box the following evening, he was mildly surprised to discover the Scoobies were present as well. Tara wasn’t, and Willow looked red-faced and weepy. Buffy was sitting in a chair a bit apart from the group, her arms wrapped around herself. Harris looked ill. Apparently nobody had told his demon girl about his secret, because she was seated on the countertop, leafing contentedly through a bridal magazine. Someone must have informed the Watcher about at least the basics of what had happened the previous night, however. He was pacing and looking anxious. Dawn wasn’t there either, but it was a school night, Spike thought.

Aside from a few automatic glares, nobody paid Spike any mind when he entered. He hoisted himself onto the counter next to Anya.

“He’s scheduled for a presentation in Irvine in three nights,” the Watcher said. “He must be stopped before then.”

“Why?” Harris demanded. “I mean, it might be humiliating and all if someone’s secrets get out, but it’s not like it’s gonna kill them.” He cut his eyes guiltily toward Anya but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Actually, I believe we can attribute quite a few suicides to this demon’s activities, as well as several murders. And according to some of my sources, he may continue to maintain some sort of emotional connection with his victims for several days, so long as he possesses the cards on which they wrote.”

That got everyone’s attention.

“Emotional connection?” Harris asked.

“Yes. He feels what his victims do.”

“I can nullify his powers,” Willow said. “I just have to do a spell, and—“

“No!” exclaimed several people all at once. She sank back against her seat and frowned.

Buffy stood. “Fine. I’ll go kill him now.” Her voice was flat, as if she were discussing taking out the rubbish or another tiresome everyday chore. “Where is he?”

Willow sniffed. “He’s at the Sunspot for two more nights. I hacked into their reservation system. Room 118.”

Buffy stood and took a step toward the door, but the Watcher called out, “Wait!” and she stopped. “If the demon is killed while the emotional bonds are in place the results may be unfortunate for his victims,” he said.

“I don’t like the sound of that,” said Harris.

Buffy asked, “Unfortunate how?”

The Watcher shrugged. “Death. Permanent vegetative states. Insanity.”

“I _really_ don’t like the sound of that,” Harris said.

The Slayer huffed out a sigh. “So if I can’t slay him, then what?”

Spike hopped down off the counter. “You can kill him. He only needs the cards taken away first.”

Rupert shot Spike an irritated look, but then he nodded. “Yes. If he no longer has the cards then killing him should have no ill effects on anyone.”

“Except the demon,” Anya added. “Killing him will have plenty of ill effects on him.”

Buffy ignored her. “Okay. Cards first, demon second.”

“The cards must not be destroyed until the link is gone, Buffy.” Rupert looked as if he was going to launch into a long explanation next, so Spike stopped him by putting his hands up.

“I’ll go with,” Spike said. “I’ll take away the sodding cards and the princess here can have all the fun, all right?”

Moments later he was walking beside her as she marched down the street. “They were bound to find out sooner or later,” he said.

“Shut up,” she growled.

“Perhaps it’s better that they know. They’re your friends, aren’t they? Now you can all have a nice natter about it and a group hug, and you’ll all—“

“I said, shut up!” he had to dance away to avoid a sharp kick in the bollocks.

He didn’t try to talk to her again after that. The Sunspot wasn’t far away anyhow, and within a few minutes she was pounding on the scuffed green door with the number 118 on it. The 8 was crooked.

The door swung open and there was the bloke from last night. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a black turtleneck, and he had what looked like a burrito in his hand. “Oh, sorry, folks,” he said. “I’m taking the night off. But if you missed the show you can catch me in—“

Buffy pushed him violently backwards. “We’ve had plenty of your show, thanks,” she said. He dropped the burrito and scrambled away, but there was nowhere for him to go but the window. Spike stepped inside and blocked the window with his body.

“Folks, look, if there’s some kind of problem, let’s talk about it, okay?” The demon tried to get the bed between himself and Buffy, but she tackled him and brought him to the ground.

“Where are they?” she demanded.

“Where are what? I don’t know—“

She shut him up with a vicious punch to the jaw. “The cards. Where are the cards? I’m not in a real patient mood here.” To emphasize her point, she wrapped her hands around his skinny neck and squeezed a little.

“In the dresser! They’re in the box in the bottom drawer!”

Spike stalked over and yanked the drawer out. Sure enough, there was a plain gray cardboard box in there. He lifted it out and removed the top. Several hundred small cards were inside. They weren’t organized in any way; just haphazard piles that shifted around as Spike moved the box. “Got ‘em,” he announced.

“Take the cards to Giles. I’ve got this under control.” When Spike didn’t obey immediately she gave him a look of such anger that he sighed and hefted the box.

“Spoilsport,” he muttered, then left.

By the time Spike returned to the Magic Box, only the Watcher was left. He was standing behind the counter, squinting at a thick book, and he looked up without surprise or pleasure when Spike came in.

Spike dropped the box on the counter next to the book. “All sorted,” he said.

“And where’s Buffy?”

“Stayed behind to wring his neck, I expect. Wouldn’t let me join in.”

Rupert made a sour face and bent over his book again. When Spike didn’t move, he looked up in annoyance. “You can go now. I’ll have Xander take care of these tomorrow.”

“Yeah, well, you’re welcome.”

“Spike, if you’re looking for congratulatory medals you’ll have to search elsewhere.”

“Just a ‘cheers’ would do. Did do you a favor, you know. Didn’t even ask for blood or dosh.”

Without looking up, Giles opened the cash register, pulled out a few bills, and slammed then down. “Here. Now go.”

Spike ignored them. “You should find your Slayer. She’s having a tough go of it. Getting yanked out of heaven’ll do that, you know.”

The Watcher gave him such an evil look Spike nearly feared being dusted. “If I want your opinion, I’ll…I’ll never want your opinion.”

For almost two weeks, Spike stayed away. He found a small nest of vamps who had been helping themselves to their dinners’ wallets, and he helped himself in turn. So he went on a bit of a bender, making Willie a happy man, and he played several rounds of poker, and he even bought himself a new telly instead of just nicking one. He walked by the Slayer’s house every now and then, just to make sure the place was still standing, he reckoned, but didn’t manage to catch sight of her.

When he finally swung by the Magic Box again, only the demon girl was there, frowning while she stuffed things into boxes.

“What’s this, then?” he asked. “Going out of business already?”

“No. I’m moving closer to Los Angeles, where there’s much more profit to be made. I have a storefront rented in Huntington Beach. The landlord gave me a fantastic deal.”

Spike blinked at her. “_You’re_ moving? But the Watcher—“

“Giles has agreed to a payment plan so I can buy the existing stock. I’m not sure that I really need such a large amount of dried garlic and hellsbane, though—he really overordered those last time—and I’m hoping I can find someone who’s willing to trade for some pickled newts’ eyes. My distributor’s clean out.”

“Watcher’s decided to quit playing shopkeeper?”

She wrapped a glass globe in newspaper and tucked it into some foam peanuts. “He’s moving back to England.”

Spike was filled with an odd mixture of glee and anger. “He’s giving up on his Watcher’s duties, then? Unless Buffy’s throwing in the chosen towel as well I reckon she could still use some watching.”

Anya shook her head absently and polished a small metal charm with her shirtsleeve. “No, she’s going with him. Willow, too. Giles thinks a coven there can help her with her addiction, and I think Buffy just wants a change of scenery.”

“Slayer’s leaving? When?” He fought back panic.

“Today or tomorrow, I think.”

He rushed out without saying goodbye.

He was enormously relieved when he arrived at Buffy’s house to see lights still lit in several of the windows. Mustering his courage and discarding what was left of his dignity, he knocked on the front door.

Buffy was dressed in grubby flannels, with her hair escaping a green scrunchie and dark circles under her eyes. “Yeah?” she asked, leaning against the doorway and not letting him pass.

“Were you even going to tell me before you left?”

“I hadn’t planned on it. I thought you’d figure it out soon enough anyway.”

“Buffy, look—“

“No! _You_ look!” She stood so close to him they were almost touching. He could feel the heat of her body radiating toward him and longed to touch her, but wasn’t certain he’d survive if he did. “I’m not your girlfriend, Spike. I’m not your anything, except the Slayer who didn’t stake you the zillion times she should have.”

“You can’t keep denying what you feel, love, what we have.”

“We have nothing.”

He let out a long sigh. “Well, then, even if that were true, you shouldn’t be deserting your post. You go running off to Jolly Olde and who minds the Hellmouth? All the evil monsters like me will just run rampant.”

He thought maybe he caught a guilty little flash in her eyes. “Xander’s staying. He can keep things under control. Anyway, Giles says there’s another Hellmouth in Ludlow.”

“Fine. Then I’ll go with.”

She shook her head. “No way. “ And then, surprisingly, her features softened a bit. “You keep saying you care about me, Spike. And maybe you’re telling the truth. I mean, I admit that you’re capable of it, and what you did for Dawn, well…okay.”

He felt an odd little flutter in his stomach and he swallowed. Perhaps she did see him as a man, almost.

She went on, “And maybe, maybe there could even be something between us. You’re good with the sexy, and—But it’d destroy us both. Can’t you see that?”

He wanted to argue with her about it, but couldn’t bring himself to lie.

With a tender touch that made his dead heart ache, she placed her hand on his upper arm. “I need to find some way to deal with what’s happened to me, and that’s gonna happen best if I’m far away from this place. And you…I don’t know what you need, but it isn’t me.”

He was not going to cry. He pursed his lips and looked away. At least she hadn’t said he was beneath her.

She leaned forward a bit and kissed him on the cheek, chastely, like a maiden aunt might. Still, her lips seared him. “Goodbye, Spike,” she said, and she went inside and shut the door.

[Chapter Two](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/97552.html)


	2. Postsecret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Begins during BtVS S6, shortly before _Once More with Feeling_. A visiting demon causes secrets to be spilled, and those secrets change our boys' lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was inspired by [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/) 's lovely art, which she's allowed me to include. It's complete and I'll post a chapter a day. As far as I know, the real person behind the [Postsecret](http://www.postsecret.com) project is neither demonic nor evil. My muse lives for feedback!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[postsecret](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/postsecret), [spike/xander](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Postsecret, Chapter 2 of 5**_  
**Title: **Postsecret   
**Chapter:** 2 of 5   
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:** slash and schmoop   
**Summary:** Begins during BtVS S6, shortly before _Once More with Feeling_. A visiting demon causes secrets to be spilled, and those secrets change our boys' lives.   
**Author's Note:** This fic was inspired by [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/) 's lovely art, which she's allowed me to include. It's complete and I'll post a chapter a day. As far as I know, the real person behind the [Postsecret](http://www.postsecret.com) project is neither demonic nor evil. My muse lives for feedback!

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Postsecret&filter=all)

[ **   
** ](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/97552.html#cutid1)   


  
[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/0007y3ee/)

**Postsecret   
Chapter Two**

It was easier to get used to than Spike had imagined. It wasn’t as if he’d really spent that much time with the Slayer to begin with, so her absence wasn’t all that strange. He considered leaving Sunnydale himself, but then he’d only have to find a way to survive somewhere else with that bloody abomination in his skull. Here he could always be guaranteed a spot of violence when he was in the mood, and he knew how to find enough money to buy himself packaged blood.

He was lonely, though. He never had done well by himself, not for very long, anyhow. Only now he faced a real challenge, because humans generally weren’t very fond of having a vampire hanging about, even if he was neutered. And all the local demons knew he’d been working with Buffy, so he wasn’t exactly on their favorites list either.

He watched a lot of telly.

After a time he found himself patrolling again, not so much because he cared whether the monsters finally took over Sunnydale as because it gave him something to do, a feeling of purpose. Besides, he didn’t much fancy running into fledges or worse every time he emerged from his crypt.

One evening in early October, he had planned to spend the night at home. He’d traded Clem a night’s winnings from kitten poker for a DVD player and he had _Shaft_ and Part One of _The Godfather_ to watch. But then he realized he was out of cigarettes, and if he was going to go out for fags anyhow, he might as well make a quick tour through the cemetery to check for intruders. So he pulled on his boots and his duster and stomped outside.

It was slightly chilly out, the first hint of what passed in Southern California for autumn tingeing the air. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the scents of drying leaves and a bit of wood smoke from some impatient person’s unnecessary fire. But then his sensitive ears caught a scuffling sound. It was coming from the other side of the graveyard, a bit that was currently obscured from his view by a small hill and a stand of eucalyptus trees. It was too loud to be a cat or possum or any of the other small creatures that made regular appearances among the graves. More out of curiosity than anything else, Spike made his leisurely way over there.

“Gah! Hey, I _need_ that arm!” The voice was familiar and it set Spike into a run.

Two vampires flanked the human, mouths set in feral snarls, hands raised menacingly. There had been three, Spike thought—he could smell fresh ashes. The remaining two were fledges, still dressed in the tattered remains of their burial suits, and they were too stupid to attack the boy in unison. True, Harris was brandishing a long stake, but one stake against three vampires should have been poor odds, especially when he was holding it left-handed, his right hanging awkwardly at his side.

At first, Spike had hoped that if Harris was here then the Slayer had returned as well, but it was clear that the gormless git had come wandering into the cemetery all by his lonesome. Spike hopped up on a tombstone to watch. This beat Don Corleone as entertainment.

One of the vamps, a tall, balding bloke with a beak-like nose, growled and lurched toward Harris. Harris swiped the stake towards him, just barely missing him, and hopped back, nearly stumbling over his own feet in the process. The vamp pressed his momentary advantage—stupid thing, didn’t deserve to unlive anyway—and Harris thrust his weapon again, catching it neatly in the chest. It looked immensely surprised for the split second before it evaporated.

The second vampire, though, was perhaps just a smidge brighter. This one had a mullet and a wispy mustache. As soon as Harris was momentarily distracted by the pile of dust at his feet, the last vampire leapt forward, grasping Harris’s injured arm and giving it a vicious twist.

“Ah!” Harris shrieked. “Holy Zeus, that hurts.” He squirmed around, trying to either get free or stab his assailant, and that’s when he caught sight of his audience. “Spike! Could use a little help here!”

Spike smiled pleasantly. “Nah, you’re doing just fine, whelp. Nearly hit the high C that time.”

The vampire yanked on the arm again and then grabbed the boy’s rather shaggy hair in one tight fist. Harris struggled uselessly as it forced his head to the side, exposing his muscular neck in a way that made Spike lick his own lips.

“Spike!” Harris screamed.

Spike was just going to let the fledge eat. But if the Slayer ever returned to Sunnydale, and she found out Spike had allowed her chum to become dinner, she wouldn’t be very pleased with him. A part of him still cared what she thought. So he sighed theatrically and hopped to his feet.

“Oi! Mate!”

The vampire paused and then swung his head to stare at Spike in confusion.

“You don’t want to eat that one. He eats nothing but shite; his blood likely resembles a deep-fried Slurpie. You want to come with me, I can show you some much tastier meals. Perhaps a nice, plump little bird.”

The vampire licked his lips and loosened his grip just a bit. “That does sound good, dude. I’ll just have this one as an appetizer.” He hadn’t learned how to speak properly through his fangs yet, and his spittle flecked Harris’s tanned skin.

Spike shook his head. “Take my word for it, mate. You don’t want to ruin your appetite with junk food.”

The vampire hesitated as if he were considering this, and that was all Harris needed to wiggle around and slam the stake home. The vampire was still frowning in concentration as it dissolved. Harris bent over for a moment to catch his breath, and then he slowly straightened and glared at Spike.

“Junk food! I’ll have you know I’m—“

“Nummy treat, yeah, yeah. We went through this before, remember, whelp? Besides, it saved your fat arse, didn’t it?”

“Hey! My ass is not fat! I’ve been working out and—And that’s not even the point, Leechboy. That guy almost killed me and you took your time doing something about it.”

“Perhaps you’ve forgotten who I am. Soulless, evil demon here. Would have killed you myself long ago if it weren’t for this.” He tapped his head with one finger. “You should be bloody thankful I saved you at all.”

Harris didn’t look thankful. He scowled and tucked the stake back in his pocket. Then he winced as he prodded gingerly at his hurt shoulder. “Yeah, whatever. Thanks for the big favor, Fangless.” He limped past Spike then without another word.

Spike waited a few moments, until Harris quite a bit down the path. Then he trotted up to his side and walked alongside him. Harris pretended to ignore him. “What are you doing back in Sunnyhell? Missing the old homestead already?”

“What are you talking about?” Harris asked wearily. “I’ve been in this dump my whole life.”

“But your demon girl said you were moving to Huntington Beach.”

“_Anya _moved to Huntington Beach. I’m still here.”

Spike absorbed this for a moment. “She sacked you, then?”

Harris made a small, inarticulate sound of anger. “We came to a mutual decision to go our separate ways,” he muttered.

Spike raised an eyebrow, which the boy may or may not have seen, but in any case Harris huffed out a breath. “I told her about my secret, okay?”

“What’d you go and do that for, berk? You’re meant to keep those things to yourself. That’s why they’re called secrets.”

“Yeah, except everyone else in town already knew I was having cold feet, didn’t they? Hell, _you_ knew. It didn’t seem right to keep her in the dark.”

“So you told her and then she sacked you.” They were walking through the cemetery gates now, out onto a deserted street. A leaf skittered by in the breeze.

Harris sighed and hunched his shoulders. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

“So your demon’s left you, your friends have flown away, and here you are. What the bloody hell were you doing traipsing through a graveyard at night? Suicide by vampire?”

“I was patrolling, Spike.”

Spike was somewhat taken aback. “Patrolling? Why? Fancying yourself a Slayer?”

Harris shot him another lethal look. “I am well aware of my lack of slayerhood. But, as you’ve so delicately observed, everyone else is gone.” He shrugged. “I’m doing what I can.”

“Nearly got yourself a permanent holiday in that graveyard.”

“Yeah, well, I’m gonna die sooner or later. Probably sooner. At least this way I would have taken a couple of the bastards with me.”

Spike was shocked to find himself feeling a grudging respect for the boy. What he’d done had been foolish but rather brave, and his attitude about death, well, Spike could nearly admire that.

They trudged along in silence for a while, until Harris suddenly stopped and spun towards Spike. “What are you doing? Waiting to see if I’ll get wasted by something on my way home? ‘Cause you’ve got pretty good odds, seeing as how that undead creep winged me.”

“Actually, I was wondering where you were going,” Spike replied mildly. “Hospital’s the other direction.”

“Maybe, but home’s this way.” He pointed down the street with his left hand.

“That shoulder needs seeing to. It’s dislocated.”

Harris rolled his eyes. “Thanks for the diagnosis, Doctor.” And he continued walking.

“It won’t mend on its own.”

“It’s gonna have to. I don’t have health insurance and I need to hang onto what cash I’ve got, ‘cause I’m about to lose another job.”

“Found something else to bugger up, have you? What’s it this time? Overcooking the French fries?”

Harris didn’t even bother to glower at him. “I was working for a construction firm and I was actually really good at it. But even if I go to the ER, this arm’s out of commission for a while, and it’s kinda hard to be a one-handed carpenter.” He looked and sounded completely defeated. Spike should have been delighted but, oddly, he wasn’t.

In fact, to his own surprise, he heard himself saying, “Why don’t you let me take a look? I’ve popped my own joints back into place loads of times; I’m sure I can manage yours.”

“Why would you do that?”

Spike grinned. “Things are more interesting with you about, I reckon.”

They were only a block or so from their destination when Spike realized where they were going. “I thought you said she was still gone!” he demanded.

“She is.”

“Then why are you going to her house?”

“It’s where I live, Spike.” He let loose with another heavy sigh. “I’m making her mortgage payments for her. It’s cheaper than that apartment I was renting, and this way she doesn’t lose the place. At least, that was the plan when I was still employed.”

It made sense, Spike expected, but it still felt strange to be climbing those porch steps once more. Harris had to invite him in—either Buffy had disinvited him before she left or the change in tenancy had worked some mojo. He never could quite suss out the fine points of the whole vampire invitation bit.

The inside of the house looked mostly the same as it had before. A bit messier, perhaps, and there were rather more empty pizza boxes about than there had been back in Joyce’s day, but it was the same furniture, the same pictures hanging on the walls. Spike could still catch the ghost of the Slayer’s scent here, and the Bit’s as well. “Like what you’ve done with the place,” Spike remarked.

“My interior decorator’s all booked up.”

They both stood awkwardly in the living room, until Harris said, “Okay. I can’t believe I’ve actually sunk to asking medical attention from William the Bloody, but here I am. Fix me up, Spike.”

For some reason, the use of his old nickname pleased Spike. “Need to take a look at you. Get your kit off.” Harris stared blankly at him. “Your shirt, Droopy Boy. Need to see what I’m working on.”

Harris grimaced. He was able to shrug off his jacket with some difficulty and a few pained grunts, but when he came to the flannel shirt he wore underneath he only scrabbled awkwardly with his left hand, unable to unfasten the buttons one-handed. Spike smirked slightly and then stepped forward to unbutton them himself.

“And just when I thought I couldn’t sink any lower.”

“Plenty of people are more than grateful to have old Spike undressing them, whelp. Consider yourself fortunate.

To his delight, Harris blushed. “I’m so not gonna—Gah! Just get it over with.”

Spike leered happily and then carefully drew the flannel shirt over the boy’s shoulders and off his bad arm. He was wearing a plain white t-shirt underneath, and Spike eyed it skeptically. “Don’t think there’s going to be any way to get that off over your head without loads of pain. Might be interesting, but I don’t have all night, do I?”

“So I’m stuck wearing it for the rest of my life?”

“No.” Spike took the thin cotton material in his fists and tore it down the middle. Then he walked around Harris’s back and did the same there. It was relatively easy then to pull off the pieces.

“Great,” Harris said, looking ruefully at the shreds of his clothing. “Now I’m gonna be crippled, unemployed, and naked.”

Spike, though, barely heard. He was distracted by the warm, bare flesh in front of him. The boy hadn’t been joking about working out—the baby fat he’d been sporting not so long ago was gone, replaced by heavy, toned muscles. Apparently he’d been building things bare-chested, because his skin was tanned nicely. There was a long scratch on the back of his neck, just under where his collars had been, and Spike licked his lips at the dried blood crusted there. Christ, it had been so long since he’d fed from a human.

“Spike?” Harris said.

“Just assessing the damage. Definitely dislocated.”

“Great.”

“I can snap it back into place. It’ll hurt like bloody hell, but only for a few moments. If you keep it immobilized in a sling after that for a few days, you’ll be able to return to work.”

Harris seemed to relax a little at that. “Really? ‘Cause today’s Friday, and I can probably call in sick on Monday without getting fired.”

“Yeah, I reckon you’ll be mended by Tuesday.”

“Then let’s get it over with, Spike. It hurts like a bitch.”

“Got any booze? It’ll take the edge off for both of us.”

“No, I don’t drink because—Both of us? You’re not the one who’s about to be…vampire-handled.”

“No, no I’m not,” Spike said patiently. “But when I pop that joint into place, I’ll be causing you a great deal of pain. And this,” he tapped at his head again, “doesn’t care that I’m only trying to help.”

“Oh.” Harris frowned. “And why are you willing to do it then?”

“Because a zap in the cranium’s less agonizing than listening to you whinge. C’mon. Down on the floor with you, flat on your back.”

Without much grace, Harris complied. Spike had to stop himself from licking his lips. The boy looked so lovely, all laid out like that, like a Christmas goose. Then Harris’s eyes widened comically when Spike dropped down to straddle his body.

“Hey! That’s not—“

“Leverage,” Spike said. And then, without waiting any longer, because the boy also _felt_ lovely beneath him and this wasn’t the time to get distracted, Spike grasped the injured arm. Before Harris could voice a protest, Spike gave the limb a vicious twist and shove. Harris screeched, the bone slipped neatly back into its socket, and Spike’s head exploded.

All right, it didn’t quite explode. It only felt like it. But he did nearly lose consciousness, and then he flopped down beside Harris, both of them panting as they recovered.

“Merciful Zeus,” Harris groaned after a time. Then he tried to sit up, and he groaned again as his arm shifted.

“Don’t you dare ruin my work. I am _not_ doing that again.” Spike hauled himself upward as well, trying to blink away the agony still throbbing behind his eyes.

“Not looking for a repeat performance myself.” Harris leaned against the coffee table. His face was pale and sweaty-looking.

Spike slowly rose to his feet and stood there, rubbing at his temple. He really wished Harris had some alcohol. “Don’t suppose you have a sling handy?”

“Actually, I do. I inherited Giles’s first aid kit. I’ll go get it.”

Spike waved at him to stay seated. “Just tell me where it is.”

“Upstairs guest bathroom, under the sink.” He put his left arm on top of the table, and then rested his forehead against that.

Spike couldn’t resist a peek in Buffy’s old room. Everything personal was gone, though, leaving only the bed with a bare mattress and a few pieces of furniture. It didn’t look like the Slayer ever intended to return. He wondered what a Southern California girl like her made of England. She was probably chilly all the time, he thought.

Dawn’s room was equally empty. It made him sad. He couldn’t explain why he’d been so protective of a girl so like the many he’d raped and murdered over the years. It wasn’t because she was actually some sort of mystical whatsit, and it wasn’t only because of his infatuation with her sister. He’d had a younger sister of his own, once, a very long time ago. Clara. She’d had blonde ringlets and blue eyes, and she’d been able to yell loud enough that he sometimes feared the house would tumble down. She’d died of typhoid fever when she was seven and he was twelve, and he hadn’t thought of her in many decades.

Shaking his head to clear it of that nonsense, Spike peered next into Joyce’s old room. The witches had shared it more recently, but of course now Harris slept there. It was unremarkable. The duvet was gray, there was a small pile of unwashed clothing in one corner and a stack of comic books on the nightstand. The room had a slightly musky smell of sweat and sawdust—likely from the dirty clothes—and also of solo sex. Spike had a vivid mental image of the boy lying in that bed, tossing off to memories of his demon. Well, he wouldn’t be doing that for a few days, anyhow, not unless he could wank ambidextrously.

Finally, Spike went into the bathroom and opened the cupboard under the sink. Sure enough, there was a large, blue plastic bin. He set it on the toilet and opened the top. It was very well-stocked—the Watcher had had to do a lot of patching people up over the years—and it took Spike a few moments to find the neatly folded fabric he was searching for. He left the bin on the toilet and took the sling downstairs.

Harris was slumped exactly as Spike had left him. “Done snooping?” he asked.

“As if you had anything worth looking at. Besides, I saw everything already, back in that awful basement.”

Harris surprised him by snickering softly into the tabletop. “That was two years ago. Before I had the full Anya experience. You have no idea what I’ve…well, never mind.”

Spike’s curiosity was piqued. But his head was still aching and he longed for a bottle of Jack and a nice, long smoke. “I’m off, then,” he announced, heading for the door. He expected Harris to answer with something flippant, or maybe with nothing at all, so he was taken aback when the boy lifted his head and looked at him.

“Spike? Um…thanks.”

Spike nodded and, with a pleasant little feeling in his chest, headed out into the night.

[Chapter Three](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/97854.html)  
  
---  
  
 


	3. Postsecret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Begins during BtVS S6, shortly before _Once More with Feeling_. A visiting demon causes secrets to be spilled, and those secrets change our boys' lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was inspired by [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/) 's lovely art, which she's allowed me to include. It's complete and I'll post a chapter a day. As far as I know, the real person behind the [Postsecret](http://www.postsecret.com) project is neither demonic nor evil. My muse lives for feedback!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[postsecret](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/postsecret), [spike/xander](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Postsecret, Chapter 3 of 5**_  
**Title: **Postsecret   
**Chapter:** 3 of 5   
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:** slash and schmoop   
**Summary:** Begins during BtVS S6, shortly before _Once More with Feeling_. A visiting demon causes secrets to be spilled, and those secrets change our boys' lives.   
**Author's Note:** This fic was inspired by [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/) 's lovely art, which she's allowed me to include. It's complete and I'll post a chapter a day. As far as I know, the real person behind the [Postsecret](http://www.postsecret.com) project is neither demonic nor evil. My muse lives for feedback!

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Postsecret&filter=all)

~~Not even LJ is cooperating for me today. I'll add the art later when LJ's working properly. But for now, here's the next chapter.~~ ETA: Fixed the art, as it seems to be working for now, anyhow.

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/0007y3ee/)  
---  
  
**Postsecret **

Chapter Three

“You can’t expect me to keep saving you like this.”

Harris tried unsuccessfully to dislodge the Ytrunga demon’s corpse from on top of his torso. “If you keep saving me like this you’re gonna kill me, Spike.”

Spike chose one of the dead demon’s arms—he had six to pick from—and dragged it a few feet to the side. “Beggars can’t be choosers,” he said, and held out a hand to Harris. With a look of momentary doubt, the boy took it and hauled himself to his feet. He was slightly shaky, probably fairly bruised, but not badly hurt. He looked at Spike from under his fringe.

“Are you daft? Trying to take on an Ytrunga by yourself, and with a—what is that thing? A Boy Scout knife?”

“Larger weaponry tends to attract attention, even in Sunnydale. I had a broadsword last week but the cops stopped me. It was a good thing it was almost Halloween.”

Spike crouched, tried to wipe some of the demon goo off his hands onto the grass, and gave up. “Could just walk the other way. It wouldn’t have come after you if you hadn’t attacked first. You’re much too old. Ytrungi fancy—“

“Little kids. Yeah, I know.”

Spike shrugged. “’S like veal, yeah?”

Harris gave him a disgusted look. “Little _kids_, Spike. Surely even you can see the difference. This one snatched a toddler from a playground two days ago. I’ve been looking for it.”

“By yourself, pillock?”

“My gang of trusty backup ninjas is on vacation.”

“You’re lucky I was here to save your neck. Again.”

Harris looked slightly abashed, because this was actually the third time in so many weeks that Spike had stepped in to the rescue. First there had been those fledges near Spike’s crypt, then there was a Fyarl skulking near the Bronze, and finally this ugly beast, currently oozing green stuff not far from old Sunnydale High. Of course, it wasn’t exactly a coincidence that Spike had managed to be there each time Harris’s life was in danger. The truth was, Spike had been shadowing him since the night with the fledges. Some nights Harris didn’t go out at all, and sometimes he met with only ordinary trouble on patrol, which he dispatched easily. But when something more bothersome showed up, well, so did Spike.

Spike had no idea why he was stalking the boy. Morbid curiosity, perhaps. A big case of bloody boredom. Maybe he was just fascinated with the way in which every demon for miles around seemed to gravitate somehow to one, seemingly ordinary human.

It certainly hadn’t got him anything but a hasty thanks. Although that was nice—he had very rarely been thanked for anything at all in the last century and a half. Still, here he was, bleeding his own blood from two nasty gashes on his chest, and his clothing ruined by demon guts.

Harris looked at him for a moment and then started to chuckle.

“What?” Spike demanded.

“Your hair is green.”

Spike reflexively put his hand to his head, and swore when he felt how filthy it was.

“Your crypt doesn’t have much in the way of modern amenities, does it?”

“I have electricity.” Spike was slightly confused by the non sequitur.

“But no plumbing.”

“Vampire, remember? Don’t need a loo.”

“But I bet a shower would be nice right about now.”

Oh. “Yeah, I expect it would.”

Harris waved with his arm. “C’mon. You can use mine.”

“Really?”

“Well, you did sort of save my life. I guess I can at least sacrifice a little hot water.”

So Spike found himself once again tagging alongside Harris as they made their way to Buffy’s house.

“I thought you had a car,” Spike said when they were about halfway there. His wounds hurt, and they wouldn’t heal properly until he got some blood in him.

“I do. Well, the bank does; I’m still making payments. And I don’t want it getting dented or shot or…goo-ed on.” He waved his arms around to indicate the mess on both of them. It was amazing how much disgusting filth one demon could leak.

When they got to the house, they kicked off their boots and dumped their coats in the kitchen. Joyce might be long gone, but Spike still couldn’t bring himself to muck up her house. Then they trudged up the stairs. Harris grabbed a big brown towel from the cupboard in the hall and thrust it at Spike. “Here. Knock yourself out. There’s still soap and stuff in the guest bathroom.”

In the end, Spike showered first, scrubbing at himself to remove as much of the mess as possible. Then he filled the tub and soaked for a long time. The water stung his chest a bit, but it had been ages since he’d had a proper bath, and he wasn’t about to lose this opportunity. He didn’t even mind the berry-scented shampoo he’d had to use—no doubt it had once belonged to Dawn—or the coconut hair conditioner, or even the lemony soap. He’d smell like a sodding fruit salad when he was finished, but at least he’d be clean and free of demon bits.

When he got out of the bath, though, he eyed the filthy remains of his clothing. He sighed. That wouldn’t do. He knotted the towel low around his hips and went searching for his host.

Harris was in the living room, his hair still damp. He was wearing a baggy t-shirt and orange flannel lounging trousers and laughing at something on the telly. “I didn’t realize vamps were so aquatic,” he said without looking up.

Spike padded into the room. “Oi. I’ve always been one for hygiene, when I could manage it.”

Harris looked up but his retort died on his lips when he saw Spike’s state of undress. “Um. Okay, nice and squeaky clean, I see. Clothes would be of the good now.”

Spike smiled. “Why? Don’t like what you see?” He turned slowly in a circle.

“Right now I’m seeing a little too much.”

That sounded like a challenge to Spike. He untied the towel and tossed it aside. “Better?” he asked.

He hadn’t realized Harris’s face could turn such a bright shade of red. It was delicious. “Spike!” the boy choked.

“What’s wrong?” Spike asked, prowling closer. “We’re all men here, yeah? Well, more or less. Besides, not like you haven’t seen it all before.” That was true. In the time that Spike had been consigned to Harris’s basement, he’d managed to give the boy a show a few times. But Harris had been preoccupied at the time, not to mention shagged out from his girl. Now, well, things were different.

Harris was clearly contemplating whether to hold his ground or flee. He ended up staying put, but with his entire body tense and angled away from Spike. Spike just grinned and sat next to him on the couch. “What are we watching, then?”

“Naked vampires. We’re watching naked vampires. Spike, for God’s sake, please put some clothes on.”

“God most certainly does not care what I am wearing. And I haven’t any clothes to put on, have I? Mine were ruined by Ytrunga guts.” Harris made a strangled little sound. Spike was very glad he’d saved the boy’s life, because this was turning out to be diverting.

“Fine,” Harris said. He stood up and managed to walk past Spike without actually looking at him.

Spike leaned back against the back of the couch and allowed his legs to sprawl comfortably. He watched as Harris walked up the stairs. “No bloody Hawaiian shirts!” Spike called. Harris didn’t reply.

The purple color of Harris’s face hadn’t faded any by the time he came back down, a small pile of fabric in his hands. But he almost made eye contact with Spike this time, as he walked forward and then dumped the clothing in Spike’s lap. “Here,” he said. “It’s not black and more black, but it won’t kill you.”

Spike eyed the clothing skeptically and poked at it with one finger. All right, it probably wouldn’t kill him. Quite. It was a pair of faded blue jeans and a white tee, much less horrible than he’d feared. He slipped the shirt over his head. It was soft and smelled faintly of detergent. Then he shimmied into the jeans. They were a little too long and quite a bit too big around the hips and waist, but otherwise acceptable. When he was dressed, he plopped down beside Harris again.

“I have a suggestion,” he said.

The boy’s face had returned to its normal hue, but he looked alarmed. “Why am I positive I’m not gonna want to hear this?” he mumbled.

“Oi! ‘S a good idea. It’ll save your worthless hide, most likely.”

That caught his interest. “Yeah? What?”

“Let’s patrol together. That way, I can be there when the nasty du jour tries to pull your head off.”

Harris blinked at him. “Why would you want to do that, Spike? I don’t get it. We’re not friends or anything, we’re not…hell, I don’t know what we are. We’re not even on the same side of the fight.”

“Have been for two years, haven’t we? Look, I fancy violence. If I can’t commit it against humans, I’m just as happy to rip demons into pieces. And there are far too many demons here for my taste anyhow. Always plotting and murdering, and how does that profit me? It doesn’t, and I’d just as soon be rid of them.”

Harris scratched at his neck. “And you want to do this with me? Why?”

“For one thing, you’re brilliant at attracting demons, You’re like some kind of supernatural bug zapper. And you do have _some_ fighting skills, rudimentary as they may be. I’d rather have you at my side than tripping over your own feet and causing mayhem somewhere else.” And he was lonely. He didn’t mention that bit.

“So we’d be…partners, sort of?”

“Exactly. Might even manage to keep you alive a bit longer. Gainfully employed, even. You can buy me a pint or two now and then.”

Harris looked down at his orange checked lap. “I’m insane,” he muttered to himself. But then he looked up at Spike. “Okay. Partners it is. But no gratuitous nudity!”

Spike smiled. “Nothing gratuitous.”

***

They fell into a routine after that. Five days a week they didn’t see each other at all, because Harris had to be at work at dawn the next morning and so didn’t patrol. On those nights Spike patrolled by himself, or else stayed in and watched telly. He soon found himself looking forward to Friday and Saturday, though, because on those nights he and Harris would meet up soon after sundown, and they’d spend a few hours or so wandering around and looking for trouble. They usually found it.

Afterward they’d return to Revello Drive. If Spike had got dirty or bloody, he’d bathe. He was keeping a spare set of clothing there now. Then he’d join the boy on the couch and they’d watch something together. Sometimes they’d share a pizza or Chinese food as well. It was companionable.

One evening in early December, Spike got mauled by some sort of demon he’d never seen before; he didn’t even know what it was. He and Harris managed to kill it, but Spike was a bloody mess, and Harris had to half-carry him to his house. When they got there, Harris deposited him on the couch, scowled at the disaster that had been Spike’s chest, and said, “I’ll be back soon.” Then he left, and Spike could hear the rumble of his car starting. He returned nearly an hour later with a grin on his face and several bags of blood in his hands. Good stuff, Spike noticed. Willie’s finest.

After that, Harris began keeping a stock of blood in his freezer. It was handy when Spike was injured, but it was also pleasant just to sip it from a nicely warmed mug, sometimes with some saltines or crisps crumbled in for texture.

They never really talked about their arrangement. Spike was a bit afraid that dissecting it would ruin it, or at least make it fell less natural. And the fact was, he was as content as he’d been in a long time. He’d never been one for complex schemes anyhow. Just a spot of violence, some lovely blood, a bit of company, and something decent to watch on the telly—that was enough, really. Well, nearly.

As December rolled to a close, Harris grew morose. He tried to hide it with his usual wisecracks, but Spike could tell the boy was miserable. He could even understand why. Christmas was practically here, and Harris’s only companion was a vampire.

“Shouldn’t you be off at your family’s?” Spike asked on Christmas Eve. They’d found some fledges in Restview cemetery that night, but now they were relaxing and watching _A Christmas Story_ on television.

Harris shuddered. “A world of no. In a perfect universe I will never be subjected to that again.”

Spike had seen some of the Harrises when he stayed in the basement. They nearly made Angelus and Dru seem like wholesome relatives. “It doesn’t bother you not to celebrate?”

“I’m not a real holiday type of guy. Willow called me from Bath on Hanukkah, Dawn and Buffy sent me a card. It’s fine. Now, shh! This is the part with the tongue and the flagpole.”

Spike waited until an advert came on. “You didn’t do anything for Thanksgiving either,” he observed.

“Sure I did.” Harris had a big plastic bowl of popcorn in his lap and he stuffed a handful in his mouth. He chewed for a moment and then continued. “We went after that Polgara, remember?”

“Yeah, well, I’m certain the bloody Pilgrims enjoyed demon killing when they weren’t murdering Indians.”

“Hey, it was better than two years ago. Remember, with the syphilis and the avenging Chumash spirit?”

“Hard to forget being shot full of arrows.”

“So you see? Fighting bad guys is a Thanksgiving tradition for me.” He shoved more popcorn in his face.

On the next commercial, Harris got up and plodded into the kitchen. When he came back, he had two mismatched mugs in his hands. He smiled and handed one to Spike. “It’s not as good as Joyce’s, but it’s kinda festive.” He set his own mug down on the coffee table and collapsed back onto the sofa.

Spike poked a finger at one of the melting marshmallows. “She was a good sort,” he said quietly.

“Yeah.”

They were silent, then, in front of more Christmas specials. They watched _Scrooge_—the one with Alastair Sim—and Spike decried the inaccurate depiction of mid-nineteenth century London until Harris threw popcorn at him. Next up was _It’s a Wonderful Life. _By the time George was about to dive off the bridge, Spike was, as always, rooting loudly for the sod to just bloody jump already. But then Clarence got his wings, and Harris was snoring and spilling unpopped kernels onto the couch cushions. Spike grabbed the fuzzy throw blanket from off a nearby chair and tucked the boy in.

He should have gone home then. But his crypt didn’t seem cozy anymore that night; just dead and empty. Spike yanked the blanket off of Harris and curled up in the armchair and went to sleep.

***

“You’re kinda cute when you’re sleeping.”

Spike shot up, stumbled over his own feet, which were tangled in a blanket, and scuttled halfway across the room. All without really waking up or registering where he was. Then he stood, half-crouching and panting, while he took in his surroundings. He was in the Slayer’s house—no, Harris’s house now. He was in the living room. Harris himself was standing a few feet away wearing striped boxers and a greenish t-shirt. His hair was standing on end and his face was stubbly. He had a bowl in one hand and a spoon in another.

“Most people wake up to presents under a tree. I get a vampire in a La-Z-Boy.”

Spike straightened up and tried to collect the shreds of his dignity. “It’s the middle of the night for me, whelp. You’re lucky I didn’t rip your throat out just now.”

Harris didn’t look in the least perturbed. He ate a spoonful of something horrible and sugary and full of artificial everything, and smiled. “I’m a lucky guy.”

“Right. Well, I’ll be off now, then.” Spike looked around for his duster.

“If you go out now, we’ll all be gathering around the Yule vamp.” Harris pointed with his spoon at the stray sunbeams that were stealing around the tightly drawn curtains.

Spike sighed and allowed his shoulders to droop. He hadn’t meant to stay so long.

Harris swallowed another disgusting bite. “Look. You might as well crash here until the sun goes down. I’ve got some projects to do outside, but go ahead and use one of the beds if you want. Any of them has to be more comfortable than a chair.”

So half an hour later, Spike’s stomach was pleasantly full of A-positive, and he was naked and wrapped in Harris’s sheets. He was enjoying being enveloped in the boy’s scent. It was slightly intoxicating. He understood why demons were so attracted to the boy, as if he was some kind of supernatural catnip. He could hear the boy outside, hammering at something and occasionally swearing good-naturedly. It was a nice sound, he thought. Homey.

Spike stretched and fluffed the pillows and fell back asleep.

***

“Uh.”

Spike blinked awake. Harris was standing over the bed, his mouth hanging slightly open. Spike smirked and recovered himself with the blankets he must have kicked off in his sleep.

“Why are you naked in my bed, Spike?”

“Didn’t think you’d fancy my tracking grave dust into your nancy sheets, baby bear. I need to borrow your washing machine, by the way. ‘M out of clean clothes.”

“But why are you in my bed?”

“The others aren’t made up now, are they?”

Harris opened his mouth, then shut it again and shook his head. He had spiderwebs and bits of leaves caught in his hair and his knuckles were scraped. But despite his distress over Spike’s presence in his room, he looked almost happy, Spike thought. “So, here’s the thing,” Harris said, and ran his dirty fingers against his scalp. “I was thinking. I’ve got the washing machine here, and the bathtubs, and the fridge full of hemoglobin, and I’ve got plenty of room, and I thought, well….” His voice trailed off uncertainly.

Spike cocked an eyebrow.

Harris looked down at the beige carpet. “Why don’t you just stay here? Not in my bed! Definitely not in my bed. But there’s the other two bedrooms, or even the basement if you want something a little more lightproof.”

It took a moment for Spike to sort through the babble, and then he sat up, the blankets pooling in his lap. “Are you inviting me to move in with you, Harris?”

Harris looked up and grinned crookedly. “Wanna be my demon roomie?”

A comfortable feeling spread in Spike’s body, almost like warmth. If he were a cat he would have purred. He smiled back. “Only if you promise to alternate the science fiction shite with some footy.”

“I suppose I can make that sacrifice.”

 

[Chapter Four](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/98209.html#cutid1)


	4. Postsecret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Begins during BtVS S6, shortly before _Once More with Feeling_. A visiting demon causes secrets to be spilled, and those secrets change our boys' lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was inspired by [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/) 's lovely art, which she's allowed me to include. It's complete and I'll post a chapter a day. As far as I know, the real person behind the [Postsecret](http://www.postsecret.com) project is neither demonic nor evil. My muse lives for feedback!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[postsecret](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/postsecret), [spike/xander](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Postsecret, Chapter 4 of 5**_  
**Title: **Postsecret   
**Chapter:** 4 of 5   
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:** slash and schmoop   
**Summary:** Begins during BtVS S6, shortly before _Once More with Feeling_. A visiting demon causes secrets to be spilled, and those secrets change our boys' lives.   
**Author's Note:** This fic was inspired by [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/) 's lovely art, which she's allowed me to include. It's complete and I'll post a chapter a day. As far as I know, the real person behind the [Postsecret](http://www.postsecret.com) project is neither demonic nor evil. My muse lives for feedback!

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Postsecret&filter=all)

 

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/0007y3ee/)  
---  
  
****

Postsecret

**Chapter Four**

 

Spike had lived with Harris before, but this was loads better. The house itself was the Taj Mahal compared to the Harris basement. Harris was a bit older and more mature and seemed to enjoy rather than resent Spike’s presence. Of course, Anya wasn’t stomping about the place, sniffing unhappily at lost opportunities for orgasms. And Spike wasn’t tied to a sodding chair, either.

At first, Spike had assumed he’d sleep in the basement here as well. It seemed fitting for a vampire. But Harris had rigged some shutters in Dawn’s old room, so no sunlight got in during the day but Spike could open the window at night if he fancied. Spike had dragged over from his crypt the few belongings he actually cared about, and now the place was starting to feel like home. It was nice. It was also nice to lie in bed in the morning, when Spike was just going to sleep and Harris was just getting ready for work, and listen to the small sounds the human made as he showered and dressed and ate breakfast.

Spike would get up right about when Harris was arriving home in the evening. They’d generally spend some time together then, either patrolling or watching telly, until it was time for Harris to turn in. Once in a while they’d go to Willie’s or the Bronze. Harris wouldn’t drink anything stronger than a Coke, but they’d play a few games of billiards or simply sit and make fun of the other patrons.

One night Harris was the first to spot a vamp trolling the boys at the bronze. She was petite, with auburn ringlets and dimples in her angelic face. Harris stood and in a low voice said to Spike, “You got my back, right?” When Spike nodded, Harris approached the vamp and began to chat her up. Then they began to dance, moving against each other slowly and sinuously, and Spike was surprised when a surge of jealousy rushed through him. That was only Harris over there, he reminded himself, and the boy did not belong to him.

He never was one to listen to his own good advice.

Harris took the vamp’s hand and they made their way toward the back exit. Harris shot a look at Spike look over his shoulder as they went, and a moment later Spike stood, drained the last of his beer, and followed.

She had Harris cornered up against the brick wall of the alley. It appeared that she was toying with him a bit, snogging him enthusiastically and rubbing the front of his trousers with one small hand. Harris’s hands were resting on her shoulders, and his eyes were open and, Spike thought, a little desperate. Spike was suddenly furious. It felt bloody brilliant to shift his face and feel his fangs settle into place. He growled and the bint let go of the boy and whirled around.

She actually relaxed a bit when she saw what was facing her. She must have been new in town not to recognize Spike and know his reputation. “Hey,” she purred. “I’m willing to share.”

For an answer, Spike leapt forward, grabbed her head, and wrenched it. As she lay on the dirty ground, screeching horribly, Harris peeled himself off the wall and plunged a stake into her heart.

They stood there for a second, looking down at the little pile of dust. Spike returned to his human face. And then Spike slammed his body into Harris’s, driving them both into the side of the building and risking setting off the chip. Harris made a sound that might have been the beginning of a protest, but Spike locked his lips against the boy’s, silencing him very effectively.

The stake clattered to the asphalt.

And then, to Spike’s enormous delight, Harris’s large, rough hands were clutching him instead, digging into his shoulder and back with delicious little stabs of pain. Xander parted his lips, allowing entrance to Spike’s tongue. Xander tasted sugary and salty and wonderful. Spike pressed his crotch against Xander’s and he didn’t care anymore if it was that other vampire who’d initially got the boy stirred up; now the boy was hard for him. They ground into one another, Xander sweaty and breathless, his blood rushing so fast and his heart beating so strongly. When Xander’s hands moved down to snake under Spike’s duster and grab at Spike’s arse instead, Spike moaned and managed to get his own palms settled comfortably between the rough wall and the denim-covered muscles of Xander’s backside.

He moaned again when Xander pulled his mouth away. His lips were slightly swollen and his eyes big and glassy, shocked-looking. “Jesus Christ!” he groaned.

Spike curled his tongue around his teeth and thrust his hips against Xander’s. “No. Spike, remember?”

“Oh, I remember.”

Spike rubbed into him again, even harder. He wished he could will away the layers of fabric between them, but now he didn’t want to separate even long enough to unfasten their flies.

“Guh,” said Xander.

Spike placed his lips very close to the boy’s ear and rumbled, “You want this.” It wasn’t really a question, and he certainly wasn’t asking permission, but some part of himself—no doubt the vestigial bits of William Pratt—needed some sort of confirmation.

He got it when Xander whimpered slightly, shoved his lower half against Spike’s, and tilted his head to the side in a way that made Spike forget to breathe. Spike whined with frustration—he only wanted to bite just a little bit, not enough to harm the boy, but only enough for a tiny taste—and placed his lips against the tanned, corded flesh of Xander’s neck and sucked.

“Holy shit,” Xander said gutturally. It was a sentiment Spike definitely shared, but he couldn’t say anything. He dug his blunt teeth in very lightly and then juddered helplessly against Xander as Spike’s body was rocked with an explosion so astonishing he almost thought he’d been dusted. As he tried to get himself under control, he became aware that the dampness at the front of his trousers was warmer than expected. The realization of what he’d done to the boy very nearly made him come again.

They pried their arms from around each other. Xander sagged against the bricks, short of breath and thoroughly debauched-looking. Spike reckoned he wasn’t looking much better. But as Xander’s eyes cleared and focused and his ability to direct his muscles apparently improved, Spike steeled himself for the anger and rejection he was about to face.

Instead, Xander gave him a small, crooked grin. “That was…unexpected.”

Spike tried to hide his relief. “Just a small demonstration of my skills.”

Xander looked down at the dark patch on his crotch. “Um…a very _fast_ demonstration.”

Spike shrugged. “Been some time for us both, yeah? We can make it last next time.” He peeked at Xander from under his brows, wondering how the boy would respond to his implicit offer. Xander blinked, pulled his t-shirt out so the hem of his hung over the stain, and bent to pick up the stake.

“Next time, huh?” was all he said.

***

They took their time walking back to the house. Spike felt relaxed and lazy. Not just from the rather nice orgasm—although that certainly helped—but more from Xander’s lack of negative response. The boy was unusually quiet as they strode through empty streets, but he didn’t make any effort to keep a distance between them, didn’t even recoil when Spike bumped against his shoulder once or twice.

When they got home, they peeled off their coats in the kitchen, leaving them draped over the backs of chairs. Spike caught sight of one of the empty food cartons from Xander’s dinner and wondered whether there was any kung pao chicken left.

“I’m, uh, gonna shower,” Xander said. “Then maybe you want to watch a movie? I rented this flick, _Hedwig and the Angry Inch_. Which is oddly appropriate, now that I think of it.”

“It’s not something with laser beams and warp drives, is it?”

Xander laughed. “No. I think you might like it, actually.”

“All right, then.”

Spike followed Xander up the stairs, then went to his own bedroom, fully intending only to change his trousers. But then he heard the water running in the master bath and got a pleasant, vivid mental picture of Xander standing under that water. Spike pulled off his shirt as well and padded across the hall, naked and already half-erect.

Xander shrieked when Spike stepped into the shower behind him. “If you give me a heart attack that’s probably gonna get you a hell of a headache, Spike.”

“’M not here to kill you,” Spike replied, and he ran his hand appreciatively down Xander’s broad back.

“I really should be freaked out right about now. Not with the _Psycho_ re-enactment, but with the guy thing, and the vampire thing, and the guy vampire thing.”

Spike tilted his head. “But you’re not.”

Xander took a deep breath. “No. I’m not.”

“So, then….” Spike moved closer, maneuvering himself so that he was fully behind Xander and draped over the boy’s back. But Xander move skittishly away, as far as the confines of the bath permitted.

“Wait! What is it you’re trying to do with me, Spike?”

“Should think that’s rather obvious,” Spike said, gesturing down at his own hard cock.

“Well, yeah. But I mean, why? If this is all some kind of elaborate evil plot—“

“Never have been one for that sort of thing, have I? It’s not a scheme, Xan. I want you. That’s all. Have for some time, I expect.”

“I’m not Buffy.”

Spike chuckled. “Again, obvious.” He gently wrapped his hand around Xander’s soft cock, which immediately began to perk up.

“Oh, God,” Xander moaned, and didn’t try to move away. “But you’re—And I’m—And since when are you gay anyway?”

“’M not.”

“Um….” He cast a significant look downward, where Spike was stroking Xander’s cock and rubbing his own against Xander’s soap-slippery hip.

“Pansexual, pet. The specific equipment doesn’t much matter—although yours is lovely, I might add.” It was. Not quite as long as Spike’s, perhaps, but nice and thick, with a pretty pink crown. It was cut, too, which was a bit of a novelty. Most of Spike’s experience with males had been with Angelus or blokes born in the Victorian era, when circumcision was less common than in the late-twentieth century U.S.

“Okay. But why me, Spike?”

“Dunno. It’s not as if I’ve ever had any wisdom in who I lo—fancied. Had a hundred years with Dru, and she was one of my better ones.”

Xander leaned his head back against the white bathroom tiles and closed his eyes. “So I’m ranked somewhere beneath a loony tunes vampire?”

Spike gnawed lightly on Xander’s shoulder for a moment, making them both shudder. “Think of it as having room for advancement, love.”

Xander seemed to run out of objections after that, or perhaps he was saving them up for later. Instead, he arched into Spike’s caresses and allowed his hand to roam over Spike’s skin as if he were trying to map him. Spike would have liked to bury himself balls deep in the boy’s heat, or persuade the boy to bury himself in Spike, but there was no slick at hand and he reckoned the boy might need to take things a bit slow, his first time with a bloke. Besides, the hot water was going to run out soon. So Spike folded neatly to his knees and took Xander’s cock into his mouth.

Xander gasped and gripped Spike’s hair so hard it nearly hurt. The water was running down Xander’s chest, sheeting off the dark hairs beneath his navel, and dripping into Spike’s face. He didn’t care. Breathing was optional anyhow, and mostly just got in the way during times like this. He cradled Xander’s heavy bollocks with his right hand and tugged at his own cock with his left, loving the slick, salty flavor at the back of his tongue. When Xander jerked and then came, the taste of his spend was close enough to hot blood to send Spike over the edge as well.

Xander’s arm was a bit shaky as he reached over and turned off the tap. “I can’t believe I just had my dick in a vampire’s mouth,” he muttered.

Spike swatted Xander’s arse. Not enough to set off the chip, but it did make a satisfying slapping noise and it also made Xander yelp. “Seems to me,” Spike said, “your dick was enjoying the vampire’s mouth just fine.”

“It was. I was. Just…this day has been all kinds of strange. I’m entitled to at least one wiggins.” He ran a towel briskly over himself then shrugged and handed it to Spike, who dried himself as well.

“But you’re not upset.”

“Spike, I’ve had more sex in the past two hours than I’ve had in the last four months. I am not upset. Just a tiny bit weirded out is all.”

Spike bit at his lip for a moment and decided to go for broke. “So if I told you I wanted to sleep in your bed with you tonight?”

“I would hope that you don’t snore.”

***

Spike wasn’t surprised that Xander gave in fairly easily to his charms. Spike was, after all, bloody sexy. Besides, Xander was a red-blooded young male who’d been getting a leg over pretty frequently with his demon bint, and then had that fun taken away rather suddenly. He wasn’t likely to turn down loads of lovely shagging.

And Spike wasn’t surprised when it turned out that the boy was skilled and enthusiastic in bed. Anya had told him so once, and she’d had even more years than Spike to form comparisons. In fact, Anya had apparently taught Xander quite a few tricks that shocked even Spike—in a very pleasant way, that is.

Spike wasn’t even surprised at the easy way their relationship evolved. They’d been mates before, but now they were lovers, and it felt right. Oh, they squabbled a bit about towels left on the floor and who had dominion over the remote control, but that was nothing serious. Spike even adjusted his sleeping schedule so that he could spend hours cuddled up against Xander’s warm, solid body, drinking in the heat and contact like a man who finds an oasis in the desert. When Xander was at work, Spike found himself puttering about the house, tidying things and preparing meals. He’d laugh at himself sometimes—what was he, Donna Reed?—but he liked the way Xander’s face would light up when he came home to a decent dinner, or discovered all his clothing washed, folded, and tucked away. Around Xander, Spike finally felt like he could let his many masks drop and truly be himself.

No, what surprised Spike was the easy way Xander disclosed their relationship to others. When they went out together, Xander had no qualms about holding Spike’s hand in public or dancing with him. It pleased Spike’s demonic nature to be able to drape his arm possessively around his boy’s shoulder and glare at anyone who gave Xander a second look. Xander didn’t even seem to especially care that most demons assumed he was Spike’s pet. In fact, he caught on rather quickly to the fact that Spike’s seeming ownership of one of the Slayer’s lot improved Spike’s reputation several notches, and Xander would lean a trifle submissively into Spike’s embrace and smile contentedly when Spike petted him like a Labrador retriever.

But it wasn’t just among demons that Xander was out. One Sunday afternoon in early June, about two months after Spike had heated things up in that alley and then moved into Xander’s bed, the phone rang. Xander had gone to the grocery store, and he’d sometimes call home to see whether they were running low on something or other, so Spike picked up. It wasn’t Xander, though, but another man. “Can I speak with Xander?” he asked.

“He’s not here,” Spike replied, trying to tamp down his irrational jealousy.

“Oh, you must be Spike! This is Rob Simmons.” Oh. Xander’s boss. And he knew about Spike, evidently.

“Erm, hello.”

“Can you have him give me a call, please? We’re having some supply issues on the strip mall project, so we’re going to start on the school tomorrow instead.”

“Yeah, I’ll let him know.”

“I hope I get to meet you in person one of these days. I want to met the guy who can put up with Xander so well!” Simmons chuckled at his own joke, while Spike was somewhat taken aback. Had the boy told his boss they were a couple?

“Sure. That’d be lovely,” Spike managed, and then they said their goodbyes and rang off.

When Xander arrived home shortly after, Spike cornered him in the kitchen as he was putting a container of milk in the refrigerator. “Your boss rang,” he announced.

“Yeah? Something the matter?” Xander took a carton of eggs out of Spike’s hands and tucked it onto a shelf.

“Said to ring him up. Something about beginning on the school instead of the shopping center.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Spike put himself between Xander and the chocolate ice cream. “What did you tell him about me?”

Xander shrugged and reached around him. “Told him I had a boyfriend named Spike, and we’d known each other a few years but just recently became a couple. I, uh, left out the whole undead part.”

“You told him you were shagging me?” Spike asked incredulously.

“Well, I didn’t quite put it like that, but sure. I mean, a guy does generally shag his boyfriend, doesn’t he? Except when his boyfriend’s shagging him.” He waggled his eyebrows. The boy had turned out to be a natural switch, which was perfect as far as Spike was concerned. “Why? Was it supposed to be a secret? You don’t seem to mind the Hellmouth crowd knowing.”

“Nah, pet, I don’t care who knows. I’d hang a sign about your neck if I could: _Property of Spike_. I’m just surprised you’d tell your lot.”

Xander shut the freezer door and put his hands on Spike’s shoulders. At the moment, Xander’s fingers were as chilly as Spike’s. “Of course I did. Why wouldn’t I?”

Spike looked away, embarrassed. “Thought you might not want people to know you were with me.”

“Spike. This thing with us…well, I still think it’s pretty weird. Not the strangest thing that’s ever happened to me, but right up there in the top ten. But I’m not ashamed of it. I’m sure as hell not ashamed of you. Sure, I took a little ribbing from the guys over the gay thing, but they tease Garcia over his beer gut and Yang over his fugly truck. It’s no big deal. Besides, I’ve met some of their wives and girlfriends. None of them hold a candle to you.”

Spike couldn’t help but smile over this. But then he frowned again. “What if the Slayer and the witch and that lot find out somehow?”

“I already told them.”

Spike started choking, and Xander patted him ineffectually on the back. “You _what_?” Spike said when he could speak again.

“I told them. Well, I told Willow, because it’s kinda hard to be chatting with Giles and then just sort of casually add, ‘Hey? Did I tell you I’m sleeping with William the Bloody?’ But anyway, Willow spread the word around.”

“When? When did this happen?” Spike looked toward the door nervously, as if a stake-wielding gang might come crashing in any moment.

“A few weeks ago. Will was kinda nagging me, telling me I should to get out and date again—like she’s anyone to talk, still mooning over Tara—and I told her no need.”

Spike felt a bit light-headed. He leaned against the counter. “And how did she take it?”

“She was pretty surprised.”

Spike raised an eyebrow.

“Okay. There might have been some ranting, and maybe a little raving, too. But then she calmed down, and after a while she decided you were an improvement over Anya. She must have told Buffy right away, because about ten minutes after we hung up, the phone rang again. Buffy yelled a while and then said that I’d at least be safer with you around. So that was that.”

Spike shook his head in amazement. “Would’ve expected at least a threat or two.”

“Oh, well, I’m sure that’s implied. Anyway, a few hours later, Dawn called. She was squealing a lot, but I’m pretty sure they were happy noises. She said you could be my Hephaistion. Do you know what that means?”

Spike snorted. “Means the Bit’s been studying ancient history.”

***

It was mid-July before Spike finally had to face his own demons. He didn’t mind playing housevamp, not really. There always had been a good bit of domesticity at his core. And they were still patrolling together, although Spike was keeping a rather more vigilant eye on his boy’s neck when they did. He certainly wasn’t going to let Xander get himself killed. Xander made sure the fridge was always full of blood, and, although he still didn’t drink himself, he never complained if Spike had a shot or two of Jack. He didn’t even try to get Spike to stop smoking, although he did ask him to do it outside. Spike did, standing on the porch and puffing away, letting memories sift through him like sand.

They were in bed when he finally raised the issue. They were both filmed with sweat and spunk, and Spike’s arse was aching pleasantly from the enthusiastic buggering his boy had just given him. “Pet?” he said.

“Hmm?” Xan sounded half-asleep already. Nothing like a good shagging to send a bloke to dreamland.

“You know I’m a vampire, yeah?”

Xander clutched the blankets to himself in mock alarm. “Oh my God! A vampire! A vampire in my bed! Get thee hence, evil demon.”

Spike bopped him on the head. Gently. “’M serious, whelp.”

Xander let the blankets go. “Yeah, Spike. I know you’re a vampire. The A Neg on the grocery list is a pretty good clue.”

“And I have no soul, right? ‘M not like Angel.”

Xander shuddered. “No, you are definitely not like Angel. Thank gods. I’d never do _this_ to Angel.” He snuggled up against Spike and mouthed at the crook of Spike’s neck.

“Bloody well better not,” Spike growled. “But that’s not my point. I meant, you’re a white hat, yeah? You don’t have that bit of a demon in you like the Slayer has, or that potential for evil I’ve seen now and then in your witch’s eyes—don’t tell me it’s not there, either. I know evil when I see it. And that is my point.” He levered himself up on one elbow so he could look Xander in the eyes. “I’ve killed thousands, I reckon. And if it wasn’t for this bloody chip—“

“Would you hurt me, Spike? I mean, if that chip stopped working, would you hurt me?”

Spike shook his head. “No. Well, maybe a bit of good pain, if you know what I mean. But I’d never harm you.”

“And how about the people I care about?”

Spike sighed. “No. Wouldn’t hurt them either.”

Xander nodded. “And if I asked you not to hunt people anymore, if that’s what you had to give up in order to stay with me, would you do it?”

Spike thought for a moment. He didn’t want to lie, not even to himself. He was a vampire, made for killing. He loved the way it felt to slip his fangs into a vein and feel his victim’s life pump away. But he hadn’t murdered any humans in over two years now, and he was happier than he’d been since—well, since he could remember. And he’d rather sink his cock into Xander than his teeth into some nameless Happy Meal anytime.

“Yeah. I’d do it.”

Xander smiled broadly. “Then that’s what matters.”

“But what I’ve done in the past—“

“Probably doesn’t compare to some of Anya’s adventures. Remind me to tell you a few of her stories one of these days. They tend to feature the words ‘pustule’ much more than I’d like.”

“Fine. What I could do in the future, what I’m capable of—“

“I could be a serial killer, Spike. I guess I’m capable. I mean, I’m pretty good at offing demons, and humans are a lot easier. But I won’t. It’s not what you _can_ do, it’s what you _do_ do.”

Spike stared at his boy and saw only earnest devotion looking back at him. “Bloody hell,” he whispered. “You mean it.”

“You seduced me, Spike. You gayed me up. Now you’re stuck with me.” He pulled Spike down until Spike was half on top of him, and he planted sloppy kisses near Spike’s ear. And then, unaccountably, he started laughing.

“What?” Spike demanded.

“Angel may be the one person in the world who doesn’t know about us. Maybe we should give him a call.”

Spike pictured the look on the pouf’s face and started to snicker. “Sounds like you’re the evil one, pet.”

[Chapter Five](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/98540.html)


	5. Postsecret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Begins during BtVS S6, shortly before _Once More with Feeling_. A visiting demon causes secrets to be spilled, and those secrets change our boys' lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was inspired by [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/) 's lovely art, which she's allowed me to include. It's complete and I'll post a chapter a day. As far as I know, the real person behind the [Postsecret](http://www.postsecret.com) project is neither demonic nor evil. My muse lives for feedback!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[postsecret](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/postsecret), [spike/xander](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Postsecret, Chapter 5 of 5**_  
**Title: **Postsecret   
**Chapter:** 5 of 5   
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:** slash and schmoop   
**Summary:** Begins during BtVS S6, shortly before _Once More with Feeling_. A visiting demon causes secrets to be spilled, and those secrets change our boys' lives.   
**Author's Note:** This fic was inspired by [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/) 's lovely art, which she's allowed me to include. It's complete and I'll post a chapter a day. As far as I know, the real person behind the [Postsecret](http://www.postsecret.com) project is neither demonic nor evil. My muse lives for feedback!

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Postsecret&filter=all)

**We're at the last chapter already. Thank you to all of you for reading and your kind comments, and special huge thanks to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[sentine](http://sentine.livejournal.com/) for the inspiration!** **Stay tuned to my LJ for upcoming fics: Spander, Spiley, and a PWP surprise. :-) **

 

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/0007y3ee/)  
---  
  
**Postsecret**

**Chapter Five**

 

It was hot. The sort of hot where news reporters fried eggs on sidewalks and scientists talked of global warming and old people dropped dead in their houses. Xander’s house had air conditioning, of course, but Spike turned it off as soon as his boy left for work each morning. He liked how it felt when his body got almost up to the temperature of a living human. He liked the way the heat made him feel a melting sort of lassitude, like a lizard sunning itself on a rock. And he liked it when Xander came home, his skin brown and warm as bread straight from the oven, and allowed Spike to strip off his clothes and lay him down on the nearest horizontal surface. Xander would moan as Spike melted ice cubes on various bits of his boy’s body, painting his flesh with tiny puddles of water. Eventually, Xander would sigh and haul himself upright, and Spike would watch contentedly as Xan took a cool shower. Xander would insist on turning the AC back on then, but he’d at least relent enough to remain nude as he wandered around the house.

With the long days, Xander was putting in more hours at work, and that might have left Spike feeling put out if his boy wasn’t all chuffed over his recent promotion, as well as liberal in spending the extra dosh he was earning. The two of them agreed that rebuilding the high school directly over the Hellmouth was beyond foolish, but it wasn’t as if the city would change its plans because Xander told them to. Besides, he said, he’d have more work when the bloody thing blew up again.

Even after the sun went down it was too hot for demons to want to do much more than sit around Willie’s, drinking cold beers. So Spike’s and Xander’s patrolling duties were minimal, and they could spend more time shagging or having friendly rows about who was the best Star Trek captain or why American football was vastly inferior to football played properly.

Xander was at work when the chip malfunctioned for the first time. Spike was in the kitchen, washing dishes, actually, when the bolt of pain seared through him like lightning. He dropped a plate onto the floor and it shattered into a million pieces, just as his brain seemed to be doing. Spike fell to his knees, cutting himself on the broken shards of pottery.

By the time the agony receded and Spike had swept the floor, he calmed considerably. It was likely just some glitch in the circuitry, probably triggered by the fact that as he’d been washing up he’d been lazily reminiscing over a summer he’d spent in Chelyabinsk with Dru, back in 1918. Dru had chirped away at tea parties full of dead children, while he’d roamed the streets, freely grabbing and killing anyone that struck his fancy without worrying about the locals going vampire hunting.

By the time Xander arrived home, hot and delicious, Spike had forgotten all about the incident.

Nearly a week later, they were in bed and Spike was busily buggering Xander when the chip went off again. Spike screamed and pulled out and curled into a ball. Xander immediately began rubbing Spike’s back, clearly confused by the unexpected turn of events. When Spike had his breath back, he patted Xander’s knee awkwardly. “Sorry, Xan,” he said. “Didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Xander’s frown deepened. “You didn’t. It was pretty much the polar opposite of hurting, as a matter of fact. What happened, Spike?”

“Chip. You’re certain there wasn’t some pain there the nice bits made you overlook?”

“Yeah. Even while being ravished by you I can tell the difference. Why the hell did the chip go off, Spike?”

“Dunno,” Spike replied miserably.

“It’s not gonna do that every time we get groiny, is it? ‘Cause it kinda kills the mood.”

Spike looked down ruefully at his wilted erection. “It does. How about we give it another go?”

Xander resisted a bit at first, but not very hard or for very long, and soon enough they were both immensely relieved to learn that they could resume shagging without the bloody bit of plastic interfering.

The third time was only two evenings later. They were walking home from Willie’s, arguing good-naturedly about whether Angelina Jolie or Heather Graham would be a better collaborator were they ever to have a threesome, when Spike was again driven to his knees. Xander spent a moment dancing about, looking for imaginary assailants, before he seemed to realize that the cause of Spike’s distress was internal.

“Jesus, Spike. What the fuck’s wrong?” Xander asked, helping Spike to his feet.

Xander looked genuinely distressed, and Spike wanted to comfort him, except at the moment it was only Xander’s strong arm around his waist that was keeping him from collapsing. “Dunno,” he croaked. “Let’s just get home, yeah?”

So they did, and by the time they got there Spike was feeling almost all the way better, with just the ghost of a headache pounding in his skull. Xander, though, looked awful, pale and drawn, and dark circles had bloomed under his eyes. They sat across from each other at the kitchen table, gazing warily at one another.

“It’s that fucking chip,” Xander said. “There’s something wrong with it, isn’t there?”

Spike nodded. “I expect so.”

“Is it gonna keep on going off like that? Is it gonna get worse?”

“I don’t know.” Spike rubbed at his temples, as if that would help.

Xander suddenly leapt up. He walked to the fridge and grabbed a bag of blood. Spike watched as his boy tore the bag open, poured the contents into Spike’s favorite red mug, and heated it in the microwave. Then Xander plopped it down on the table in front of him, spilling a few drops. “Here,” Xander said. “That’ll help.”

“Ta.”

And Spike sipped at it, imagining the blood coursing through his body, filling his belly and healing the small injuries he’d collected earlier in the night, when he’d had a bit of a dust-up with a Chaos demon. He always had found it especially satisfying to tear into that particular species. Xander didn’t sit back down, though. Instead, he paced restlessly for a moment and then grabbed the phone off the counter. “I’m gonna call Giles,” he announced. “Is it a reasonable time there?”

Spike glanced at the clock on the microwave. “Yeah. It’s past ten in the morning there, pet. But what’s the Watcher going to do?”

“Research. He’s really good with the whole research thing. He’ll get out his books and he’ll figure something out.”

Spike shook his head. “Those books are all about hocus-pocus, the supernatural, shite like that. This,” he tapped his forehead, “is technology. Good old Yank ingenuity.”

Xander’s face set stubbornly. “He’ll figure something out,” he repeated.

Spike didn’t stay to listen in on the conversation. He knew how it would go: Xander would explain the situation, Rupert would refuse to help restore Spike’s lethal potential, Xander would yell, Rupert would yell back. One of them would hang up on the other. Instead, Spike trudged upstairs and stripped and crawled into bed. He wrapped the pillow around his head, as if that would allow him to block out all his problems. He refused to think about how little time he might left have to enjoy the strange unlife he’d found here.

When Xander came to bed a good while later, he looked grim. Spike peeked out at him from under the blankets. “You can’t blame him, love.”

Xander climbed in beside him. “Can’t blame who?”

“The Watcher. Helping demons isn’t really his mission, is it?”

“Well, no, but he’s gonna do his best, he said.”

Spike blinked at him. “He did?”

“Of course.”

“But—he hates me.”

“Well, you’re probably not on his list of favorite people. But he knows how I feel about you, and he doesn’t hate _me_, and, well, he said he’d try.”

This was all a bit much for Spike. “How do you feel about me?” he managed to ask.

Xander blushed and looked away. “I, uh….”

“’Uh,’ pet?”

Xander sighed. Still without looking at Spike, he said, “I love you, okay? There, you made me say it, with your evil demony ways.”

Spike tugged him down for a long, deep snog. After, they lay entwined with each other. Despite his grim situation, Spike couldn’t help smiling into the darkness as Xander snored softly in his arms. His boy loved him.

***

Within a fortnight Spike was confined to the bed, or the couch if Xander persuaded him to allow Xander to carry him there. Between the fog of pain and the copious amounts of whiskey he downed in an attempt to dull the torture just a bit, Spike had only a vague idea what was going on around him. He knew Xander had taken some time off work—vacation time he was owed, he claimed—and that his boy spent most of his hours hovering nearby, occasionally forcing Spike to swallow a few drops of blood. He thought Xander was on the phone quite a bit—at least, there seemed to be a good bit of shouting going on, and he was fairly certain it wasn’t aimed at him—but he couldn’t begin to follow the conversations.

He’d begun to beg Xander to just dust him.

And then Xander was cradling him in warm, solid arms, and placing a hot, damp cloth on Spike’s forehead. “It’ll be over soon, sweetheart,” he murmured in Spike’s ear. “Just hang on a little longer. They’re almost here.” Spike had no idea what he was on about and couldn’t focus his muddled, abused brain enough to suss it out.

It could have been minutes later or it might have been days—Spike’s sense of time was completely gone—when there was some sort of fuss in the house. Loads of green. People with deep male voices bustling about. Somebody with an oddly familiar face that he couldn’t place poking at him, and then some others. Then he was being lifted and carried. He tried to squirm free, but Xander whispered, “It’s okay, Spike. I got you,” and he realized he was in his boy’s arms and relaxed.

When was the last time someone had carried him? Dru, he expected, that time when Buffy had dropped the organ on him. This was nicer. Xander was warm and solid instead of cold and bony, and Spike knew that at least his boy wouldn’t decide to play dollies with him or worse, invite Angelus to play. All right, so the Battle of Verdun was being waged in Spike’s cranium and he couldn’t seem to get any of his limbs to obey him properly, but he knew he was loved. He’d always had a horror of dusting alone and unmourned.

They were in the kitchen, Spike realized. Xander set him down on a metal trolley—since when did they have a trolley in there?—and, when Spike whimpered a protest at being released, held his hand instead, very tightly. A moment later there was some jostling as Spike was repositioned onto his belly, and straps were tightened about his arms and legs and torso, and his head was affixed face down into some sort of cloth circle, but Xander was still there, still touching him, so it must be all right.

Something cold touched the back of his neck. Then, just a moment later, there was an odd buzzing sound that he was fairly sure wasn’t coming from inside his head. He tried to ask Xander what it was, but then it faded away, to be replaced instead by a thick, rushing blackness that blotted everything out.

***

“Spike? Spike, sweetheart, can you hear me?”

Spike tried to groan and couldn’t quite manage it. He wanted the darkness back again. It was peaceful there.

“Spike, you need to eat. Got some nummy human juice here for you, all nice and toasty.”

Spike thought about fluttering his eyelids open and decided it was too much effort.

Somewhere floating over his head, there was a heavy sigh. He started to slip back into sleep. But then his head and shoulders were being raised a bit so that they were on something warm and bumpy. He opened his mouth to protest, but an object was immediately pressed up against his lips. Panic was edging into him—why couldn’t he bloody _move_?—and then the taste hit his tongue. Blood. Human blood. But not with the stale, plastic flavor of the shite he’d been feeding on for ages. This was fresh and hot and delectable, the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted, in fact. And then he realized the soft stuff against his lips was skin, living skin, warm and smelling slightly of sugar and tomato sauce and—Xander!

Spike moved his head to the side, breaking the contact between his mouth and Xander’s wrist.

“Hey, it’s all right,” Xander said. “You’ve only had a couple little swallows. I can donate more than that.”

The bleeding wrist was again placed against his mouth, and Spike wanted nothing more than to feed from it, but what if he lost control and hurt his boy? He tried to move away again, but a hand held him in place.

“C’mon, Spike. It’s dripping all over the sheets. That’s a waste and it’s gonna be a bitch to get clean.”

So Spike drank some more, just a trickle, really, but it was still brilliant, and he felt himself becoming stronger with every drop. When he tried to stop the next time, Xander let him, and he felt his boy pushing a few stray curls back from Spike’s face.

“I’m gonna go get a Band-Aid, okay? Be right back.” Spike was jostled again, and he realized his head had been resting on Xander’s lap. He very much wished it could just remain there, but Xander was gone already.

Spike made a small, unhappy noise, and there was Xander again, petting at Spike’s shoulder. Then soft lips were feathering against his closed eyelids, against the points of his cheeks, and that was pleasant and soothing. This time, the void that Spike slipped into was warm and smooth and quiet, like a tunnel made of gray velvet.

***

For several days, Xander fussed over Spike and fed him cup after cup of nuked blood. Eventually, Spike had enough strength to sit propped against some pillows and open his eyes. “What happened?” he asked softly, suddenly alert enough to realize that the pain was gone.

Xander smiled at him. “They took it out.”

Spike’s hand flew to his head. There was a small bare spot in the back, just now growing back a little stubble. It felt slightly tender. “The chip’s gone?” he asked with wonder.

“Yep. Well, look.” Xander reached over to his bedside table and took a small box in his hand. It was a jewelry box, Spike realized, covered in plush black fabric. Xander opened the hinged top and held the box in front of Spike. The inside was lined in white satin, and atop that sat a bit of shiny plastic not much bigger than the head of pin.

“That’s what’s given me so much trouble?” Spike marveled.

“Yeah. I thought you might want to see it. Keep it as a souvenir, flush it down the toilet…whatever you want. It won’t hurt you anymore.”

“And you trust me without it?”

Xander nodded decisively. “I do. Just, no murdering humans, okay?”

Spike nodded back. “All right. But…how, pet?”

Xander closed the box and set it on Spike’s lap, than settled back against his own pillows. “Giles couldn’t find anything in his books. You were right about that. But we spoke with Buffy about it, and it turned out she still had a phone number for Riley Finn. Remember him?”

“Captain Cardboard.”

“The very same. She gave him a call, and I’m still not sure how she did it, but she talked him into helping you.”

“Bloody hell.”

“You were pretty much out of it, but he showed up with some of his buddies and we turned the kitchen into an OR—and can I add here, seeing your boyfriend’s brain? Eww!—and they dug that bastard out of there.”

“Bloody _hell_,” Spike repeated.

Xander grinned. “That about sums it up. So. Wanna see if you’re no longer neutered?”

“Not up to shagging now, whelp,” Spike groused.

“And that’s a phrase I never thought I’d hear pass your lips. But I wasn’t talking about sex, Spike.” He held out an arm, the one without the small scab on the inside of the wrist. “Bite me, Spike.”

***

It was another week or so before Spike was fully recovered. Once he was, though, he felt bloody brilliant, a whole man–well, whole vamp—once again. The small mouthfuls he was allowing himself of Xander’s blood seemed to zing inside him, making him feel as powerful as a god.

He’d been worried that once his electronic leash was gone, he’d find himself tempted to hunt once again despite his promise to Xander. He was vastly relieved to discover he wasn’t tempted at all. It comforted him to know that he’d be fully capable of protecting his boy if Xander was ever threatened by someone human, and it was reassuring to know he could defend himself as well. But he was just as happy as he’d been before with his unlife with Xander, and he had no desire to jeopardize that. He was pleased, too, to learn that his feelings for the boy had nothing to do with that wretched bit of plastic.

Still, something nagged at him. Finally, on an afternoon in late September when he could almost taste the smoke from the wildfires many miles away, he pulled Xander down onto the sofa next to him. Xander looked slightly alarmed.

“Why’d you do it, love?” Spike asked. “The chip, I mean, but also taking me into your life, letting your friends know we’re together…everything. You didn’t mean to end up with me, did you?”

“It was kind of a surprise at first, Spike. I always thought I’d end up bitten by a vamp, but not like this.” He touched the inside of his thigh, where the denim was hiding several tiny, healing pinpricks. “It was a good surprise, though. Best ever. And I told you, I love you.”

Spike licked at his lips. “Love is a funny thing, Xan. Sometimes you think it’s there, and….” He looked away.

Xander swatted him lightly on the bicep. “I know when I love someone, Spike. With Anya…I liked her, I really did. I didn’t want to hurt her. But I didn’t _need_ her. I need you, Spike. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Spike went very still.

Xander stood. “Let me show you something.” He rushed away, then, loping up the stairs. Spike could hear some small rustling, the sound of a drawer slamming. And then Xander reappeared, slightly breathless, holding something in his hand. A small, white piece of card. He held it out toward Spike and, when Spike didn’t take it, set it on Spike’s leg.

“That’s yours, isn’t it?” Xander asked.

Spike glanced down at it but didn’t answer.

“I thought it was. Giles told me to get rid of the secrets—he said I could burn them or just throw them away, it didn’t matter anymore after the Hrhtugr demon was dead. But I kinda started reading them first because…well, because I was nosy, I guess. And I found this one. I thought it might be yours because of the handwriting. Everybody else scribbled theirs, but this one was all fancy and elegant. Old-fashioned. Kinda like my Great Aunt Thelma, who used to send me a birthday card and a five dollar bill every year. And the thing was, the secret you wrote, I felt the same way. My secret, the one about being scared of getting married, that was true, too. But a guy can have more than one secret, can’t he? So I saved it. Had a nice little bonfire with the rest, but I saved yours. And…here it is.”

Spike touched the card gingerly, using just a single fingertip, as if it might bite him. He thought about Xander reading it, identifying with it, tucking it away in his chest of drawers. “Did you mean it when you said it, then? Or were you only humoring me?”

Brown eyes looked earnestly into his. “I’m not so much sharing feelings guy, okay? And I’m not all with the swanky words like you are. I’m good at building things and fucking, and I’m fairly decent at demon slayage. That’s all. Oh, and I can kick your ass at _Grand Theft Auto_. So I kinda stole your phrasing, but that doesn’t make it any less true. I’ll say it again. Hell, I’ll say it every day for the rest of my life, if you want. Spike, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

The lightness in Spike’s chest was incredible. It was as if he’d had a lead weight instead of a heart for his entire existence, both human and demon, and now that weight had been removed. He wanted to sing, or write bloody poetry, or simply snog his boy senseless. But instead he took the card in his hands and ripped it into small pieces, which he allowed to flutter to the carpet. Then he turned and grasped Xander’s hand.

“What’s a bloke to do when he hasn’t any secrets left?” he asked.

Xander grinned. “Then I suppose it’s time for him and his boyfriend to create some new ones. Together.”

 

_\---fin---_

 

 


End file.
